


A Collection of Drabbles

by sullenhearts



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 07:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenhearts/pseuds/sullenhearts
Summary: My friend went away so while she was gone I wrote her a number of drabbles - twelve in all. Most days I used whatever song was in my head, stealing either the title or a lyric and using that as a prompt. They came out pretty emo! I'm saying they're drabbles because each is 100 words or more. If it went over, I let it, but if it was under I made it come to 100 words at least.Carve It Into Something NewandYou'll Never Fumigate the Demonswere so-called because of Plan A and You're My Waterloo at Hackney Empire last week





	A Collection of Drabbles

**I love you like a madman**

I do, you know. They tell me I’m mad. They say there’s no worth left in you, they say I’m good enough by myself, I don’t need you for my career. I don’t believe there’s nothing left in you - there’s lots of you left, in the curve of a smile, in the nod of a head, even in the way you mention me in interviews, mention our past, letting the light in on the memories. You think I only keep hold of you for the music, you think I’m only in it for that. It’s not true, it’s never been true. It’s the way you hug me tightly and breathe an ever more ridiculous nickname into my ear. I love you like a madman - passionately and without release.

**Drunken Sailor**

What’s to do with him, eh? White rum kisses, lips slipping across mine, sticky and sweet, filled with longing and love and something he knows he can’t have. I pretend that I’m drunker, I pretend to not care when his mouth slides across mine, when he’s kissing my neck, when he bites my collarbone. I can’t help myself though when his lips are on my thighs, on my cock, on my balls. I can’t stop when he sucks and hums and when his nose nestles in my pubic hair. 

I pretend to not care when he walks away sated, afterwards. 

**Sucker Punch**

I forget, sometimes. I forget how he is, in life. I forget how much he frustrates me and upsets me and also how much I love him, how beautiful he is, how the grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes only make me love him more. I forget – I forget the sound of his voice, I forget the way my body tingles when I make him laugh, I forget the way my name sounds in his mouth. Then he’s back – I’m back – we’re back together and it hits me, like a sucker punch. 

**Some Kind of Nothingness**

_Note: I wrote the beginning of this ages ago, then half plagiarised it for [Carlisle Calling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797703), and have then used it here. Sorry if it seems so similar, that's why_

Carl already knows he won’t be seeing the inside of his hotel room. Edie’s not here tonight and Carl is pretty sure he’s got lucky enough to spend the whole night with Peter. It’s what usually happens, but they still ostensibly pay for a room that Carl slings his stuff in and then leaves to sit empty. They’re in the lift with a tech called Matt, standing three feet apart from each other. Peter has his eyes on his phone, but when he catches Carl looking at him he gives him a quick wink.

“Night,” Matt says, getting out on the fourth floor. 

“Night,” Carl says. “Thanks again.”

Peter says nothing. The doors swoosh closed again. Neither Carl not Peter move. Carl watches the lights flash on the floors they’re sweeping past – 5, 6, 7, and finally, 8. The quiet floor. That’s a laugh. Peter likes rooms booked here because there’s fewer people, it is quieter, better for his anxiety. Carl just finds it ironic. The Mirror would have a field day with it. 

Peter steps out of the lift. Carl follows, in file behind him (the corridor not being that wide). It’s silent, just a buzz coming from the lighting. Carl watches Peter’s back, the way his shoulder blades move, the fact that the pocket of his jeans is ripped off his arse. Carl would know this back anywhere – in a line up of backs he knows Peter’s intimately. 

He’s thinking so much that he almost trips over Peter’s feet when Peter stops are his door. 

“Careful,” Peter says with a grin. He slides the key card into the lock and opens the door. 

Carl follows, turning the lock on the door behind him. Peter puts his phone and wallet on the desk and kicks his shoes off. Carl watches, feeling a wave of fondness wash over him. For all the time they haven’t been together, it was these intimacies that he missed. The little things someone does. Not the big things like how they play guitar or how their eyes shine like you gave them the world, but the little things. Like how now he’s turning his eyes up to Carl and smiling a tiny smile. 

Carl wuld like to bottle that smile and keep it for himself always. 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Are you planning on standing in the doorway all night?”

“No,” Carl says, and closes the gap between them, stepping up close to kiss Peter. 

Peter reacts, his teeth clashing with Carl’s, his tongue sliding against Carl’s lip. His hands come up to caress Carl’s face, his fingers on Carl’s cheeks. It’s a relatively new gesture for Peter, and to begin with Carl had pulled back from it. It had felt a bit weird, felt like something you’d do to a girl. One of those movie type gestures for when you’re really trying to impress someone. But Carl’s kind of used to it now and it makes him feel sort of – precious, maybe. Like Peter wants to keep him close. The thought occurs now that Peter is trying to impress him. 

He steps in closer, the pace changing, Peter’s hands still on his face but his hands on Peter’s belt buckle, fumbling it. He can’t undo it, though, so he breaks the kiss to look at it.

“Oi oi,” Peter says softly, and undoes the belt himself, pulling it from the loops to drop it behind him. 

After that Carl just wants him naked and fortunately Peter seems to agree, stripping and then crashing on to the bed, tugging Carl by the hand with him. 

Carl’s still dressed though, which is unfortunate, it feels very fucking unfortunate, especially when he’s ended up with his knees either side of Peter’s hips and his cock is already twitching. He moves to the side, pulling off the layers on his top half. Then he scrabbles at his jeans, but his boots are in the way and the knots… The fucking knots. Whose stupid idea was it to wear his Dr Marten’s? They’re double knotted, too, and pulling tighter – fuck. Fuck’s sake. Peter laughs softly, his fingers tracing patterns on Carl’s bare back… Finally Carl stands up to free himself from both boots and clothes. Then he settles next to Peter. Stark naked, the both, and they look at each other for a long moment. There’s no light on in the room but enough from lights outside to see each other by.

It wasn’t like this before. Between them. It was never like this. Sex was always fumbled, kisses stolen and never given freely. Carl thinks he was drunk or high for most of it. Now he’s neither, and if he’s ever unsure of Peter’s status there, he figures he’s sober enough to keep the both of them safe. 

It’s definitely not like it was before.

Peter leans in for a kiss, his fingers on Carl’s hip and then his arse, and then his cock, stroking long strokes, his fingers feather light on Carl’s balls. 

Carl kisses him deeply, his leg over both of Peter’s to press them together. He likes the feeling of Peter’s skin against his. Softer than you’d think. Warmer, too. Peter’s always warm. 

He turns. Carl follows, ending up with his knees either side of Peter’s stomach. Peter runs his hands up Carl’s tights appreciatively. 

“Alright sunshine?”

“Hundred percent,” Carl says. He could shuffle forward and let Peter suck his cock for a while. He likes this position for that; he likes to watch Peter’s neck stretch for the right angle to take Carl deep. He could shuffle backwards and let Peter’s cock rub gently against his arsehole. The possibilities are endless. The night feels limitless. Life isn’t limitless but right now it doesn’t feel so bad. He likes being fucked – he’s been known to beg for it on occasion – but he doesn’t think Peter is there right now and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. Sometimes Peter just isn’t in the right mood for sex at all, and that’s fine. It’s both physical and psychological, and Carl reassures him that It’s Not A Big Deal. And it isn’t. There’s hundreds of things they can do that aren’t dependant on hard ons or orgasms. Half the problem is choosing exactly what. Carl’s still in the same place, watching Peter watching him.

“What?” Carl asks, smiling.

“Just you,” Peter says, his hands still running up Carl’s thighs, his thumbs tickling the very inner, intimately soft skin near Carl’s groin. 

Fuck, Carl wants him. The buzz of the gig is starting to wear off and he wants to lose himself in an orgasm, wants to lose himself in the joy of fucking someone else. He used to try masturbation but it’s not the same. This is about a million times better. Especially when it’s Peter. Especially _now_ it’s Peter. 

“Will you turn over for me?” Carl asks, moving off Peter. 

“Reckon so,” Peter says affably, and leans up for a kiss as he moves. 

Carl takes the opportunity to rifle through his wallet for a condom and a sachet of lube. He’s all about responsible safe sex these days so there’s always condoms on his person – wallet, bag, even his guitar case on occasion. He’d forgotten lube, though, so he’s had to nick some. He’ll pay it back in kind. He touches Peter’s back, smoothing out some knots in the muscles. 

Peter sighs contentedly, his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed. Carl leans to kiss him even though it’s an awkward angle. He slides one hand over Peter’s arse and down one thigh, nudging them apart with one knee. 

Peter laughs softly. “What’s my safe word?”

Carl thinks about it. “X Box,” he says, knowing this will earn him a laugh.

It does. Peter’s eyes are still closed but Carl watches him closely anyway, touching himself with the tip of his cock in the cleft of Peter’s arse.

“Tease,” Peter says. 

He goes slowly, even though he wants to speed up, even though he’s desperate for the oblivion, even though Peter would probably let him do anything he wanted. He goes slowly all the same, making sure they’re both okay at every turn. Using his words. 

He’s rewarded with a fantastic orgasm and a pliable Peter beneath him afterwards, peppering kisses on him, sucking a mark into his skin, laughing, tickling him. Carl lets himself go, lets himself feel all of it, lets himself worry about nothing. 

**Forever Hold Your Peace In Pieces**

Depressed again, aren’t I. Black dog, existential despair, no meds left, none shall the light shine in, all of that. I can tell because I sleep. You know me, never usually sleep, but when I’m like this I can’t do anything but. Feel like I’m walking through syrup, calves aching. Effort to get to the bathroom. Out of fags and no one to deliver ‘em. You turn up one cold Tuesday afternoon, unannounced, with a packet of menthols in your shirtsleeve and a knowing smile, and I steal it and the lighter and pull you under the blankets fully clothed. 

**Maggie May**

Wake up, Carlos, I think I’ve got something to say. It’s September and I really should be – well, not uni, maybe, cos it never suits – but I should be doing something, should be working or writing or – well, anything. Anything other than you. Been doing that quiet enough, thanks, and frankly my body’s sore. And my throat. Though that’s more the drugs and alcohol than anything else – you’re a bad influence. The worst influence, according to my mum, although she – oh mother, what a lover he is, though – though I didn’t say that on the phone, just thought it. Been a good summer, it really has, but what are we going to do? Form ourselves a rock ‘n’ roll band? Come on, it’s been done, and by those far better than us. Wait, what are you – oh. A new song, have you? Honestly, sometimes, I wished I’d never seen your face. 

**Kicking Pigeons in the Park**

There’s an hour in the day, just before darkness, when the world goes quiet, when the trees start to shush themselves to sleep, when the parks are empty and the ducks go to bed and the swings stop swinging and even the dogs turn their noses up at a walk. And that’s the best hour to go to the park, to walk along cool streets with a fag in one hand and a bottle in the other, and watch himself tap dance along the pavement, half-cut on cheap brandy from the offy. There’s a small ripple on the pond as you walk past it, a small wind in the branches of the weeping willows nearby, a creak in the roundabout, and that’s where he’ll kiss you, over the metal arm of the roundabout made for kids, him swinging on it and you sitting down, and he tastes of the wine you had earlier and the menthols he’s been chain smoking, and a wood pigeon coos softly in a tree above you and it feels like everything is set just for you, just for you both. 

**Get Lucky**

They’re both high on MDMA and everything is brilliant, everything is fucking great, and the music – the music, it’s brilliant, it’s fun and funky and they’re dancing – they’re both not bad at it, despite Peter’s ungainliness at times, despite Carl’s self-consciousness nearly always. That’s gone, obliterated by the ecstasy, and he’s spinning, twirling them both, and Peter’s laughing, so happy, delighted by the beauty of this creature in front of him. 

And then they’re kissing, right in the middle of the dancefloor, sweaty lips, the salt off their faces merging with the other’s, and they each can’t get enough but it’ll be enough, it’ll be enough for them for now. 

**You Can Never Leave**

John had it right. He had described the whole charabanc as a merry go round, way back when, in a rare flash of anger, like he used to get sometimes before he zenned out completely. It was a merry go round and he was sick of it, he was stepping off, he’d had it with both of us. He did step off, as well. He disappeared for a long time, his phone number unknown to us. We had to contact him through Line. I kind of knew why. I was kind of jealous. 

Not that I ever could. You and I run in magnetic circles, sometimes falling apart, sometimes coming together. Our Venn diagram of friends means we could probably go years without seeing each other, we don’t overlap that much. But I wouldn’t ever let it go that long, you know I wouldn’t. 

**Carve It Into Something New**

Peter’s later than he should be. I’m not paying attention, really, but I’m still aware of the moment that he has walked in. There’s a noise – no, not a noise, a hush, like everyone shuts up for one second – and I know that’s him arriving, late as usual, fag in his mouth even though he’s inside, a guitar in his hand and a suitcase in the other like he’s being evacuated to Dorset straight away after. He’s beaming, saying hello to all and sundry, and he seems pretty laid back. Which is good. Bodes well. I know he’ll make his way over to us – cos of me, cos of Steely – so I don’t look up until he’s standing just being Lisa, still smiling. 

“Evenin’,” he says, doing a little bob like he’s a fucking policeman, and it’s so absurd that I snort a laugh without meaning to, and he looks at me and smiles a much softer smile, and I know we’re okay, for now. 

**You’ll Never Fumigate the Demons**

Ah, my Spanko the Clown, my gigolo, my electric bugaloo. He’s outside when I finally catch him. He’s got the arm of his sunglasses in his mouth, all louche, an’ the thing about Carlos is that it’s not a rockstar act, he just is that way, he just makes it that fucking cool to live. He swaps them for a cigarette – oral fixation, some might say – and leans against the wall, toes of his black n white Converse digging into the muck. 

I feel like a kid again, I feel nineteen again, I feel thirty-one again. That last one cos it feels like where we started again, nearly a decade ago, a missed call and a voicemail and an invitation. It feels like when he came back to me, where slates were wiped and sins forgiven, where kisses were stolen and where he smiled so prettily, and just for me. 

The candles look fucking beautiful, lighting up the whole place, transforming it from just a venue to something ethereal, something good enough for this. For him. 

**Rebel Without A Cause**

You’ve got no chance, when you meet. You’re already excited because your sister’s been going on about this lad for weeks, and you think, this is it, this is going to be good, you can just feel it. You’ve got – you’re going to stay calm, you’re going to be cool about it. You’re bouncing all the way down on the train, desperate to be there. You can feel London in you, you can feel its busy-ness calling to you. It’s your way out – maybe he’s part of it too. 

He’s stunningly beautiful in person. You’ve seen a photo but it in no way did him justice. He’s all dark floppy hair and heavy blue eyes. When he trains them on you, you feel like the only person on earth, you feel like the chosen one. 

But to begin with, it’s like you’re just not good enough. Everything you say falls flat, every word out of your mouth sounds stupid to you. Amy laughs, of course she does, but he’s just kind of nodding his head, his lips pressed together.

Calm down. Take it easy. It’s not a big deal. He’s just debonair on the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, black Dr Martens scuffed and worn at the front. He’s wearing a faded white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled to his mid-bicep. Stuffed underneath the left one is a small packet of cigarettes. His lighter’s in his hand and he keeps flicking it, his thumb rubbing the wheel, a small flame leaping from it every so often. 

It’s all gone quiet. He stands up, drains his drink, and looks at you, smiles a kind of crooked smile, and says, “Do you want a cigarette outside?”

You follow him downstairs, watching the way his shoulders move under the pale fabric, aware of the smell of him, even laughing a bit at the red jacket he shrugs on in the hallway. You step out with just your jumper on, rain be damned, and take the cigarette he offers. You step in close when he proffers his lighter, look at those blue eyes close up, lighter in the middle and a deep sapphire round the edges, and you can see the challenge and you’re intrigued and already, a little piece of your heart belongs to him.


End file.
